Foul Ball
by daphno
Summary: "I lost my teddy bear," his scrunched up face whined when she opened the door. "Will you sleep with me instead?" MSR; S7; Rated T for one use of language.


**This came out of nowhere when I was supposed to be working on my uni portfolio ¬_¬.**

**Spoilers: Post- All Things; Pre-Requiem.**

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><p>His kiss was a conversation, a back and forth hymn made of call and response, of leaning back and looking in and "I'm here"'s and "hold still"'s. He'd arrived with an empty wine glass in one hand and a paper plate of banoffee pie in the other, which he handed over to her solemnly as if fanfares should be playing on the horizon.<p>

"I lost my teddy bear," his scrunched up face whined when she opened the door. "Will you sleep with me instead?" This earned him a laugh and half a frown, because she could smell alcohol on his breath and babyish longing in his open face.

She'd stood back, let him in, eaten the pie and made him coffee, which he'd watched go cold on the dining table, fingers chasing the steam as it fled the cup. She asked him what he was doing here and he made some smart comment about how maybe he'd left his teddy bear in her bed and would she mind coming with him to go check. She told him to find his own damn teddy bear and drink the coffee.

And that was when the kissing had begun, as unexplainably as it ever did, out of nowhere from under the floorboards and the shadows of the bedroom. He was clumsy with the alcohol, knocking his teeth into her gums and getting his hands all twisted in her braids. And so their conversation had begun, their conversation of kisses, pulling him back into sobriety, and they talked that way for hours.

They ended up on the sofa, and he was telling her about his teddy bear. He had one leg tucked under him and one arm had her in a weak half-nelson as he extrapolated about the soft toy. He smelled of sunflower seeds and the same cologne he'd worn for years and her bathroom shampoo. His breath was wine and beer that she swallowed up. Every now and then he would poke her in the stomach and ask about the teddy bear. His eyes were tired; he'd probably not slept in days.

"Take off your shoes," she said, and he did. Like a child, getting ready for bed, he obeyed and kicked them under the table, leaning back against her and continuing with his sorry tale.

She watched him move, curling his limbs on the sofa like a captured starfish. She held his head and curled his hair. It had been like this so often recently, the same calculated pattern of alcohol and missing items and Mulder in her bed at the end of it all; so often that she worried at the equilibrium of it all, that perhaps she had added it all up wrong somewhere between her latent head and her confused heart. This was not how they operated.

But then he was drunk. He was always drunk when he turned up at her door. It was never the blinding haze of arrogance and violence that she had witnessed years ago, and dealt with like a doctor under a harsh light, but she had only ever tasted alcohol from him. He would slur out his sorrows and she would kiss them better, then they would fuck 'til he fell asleep with all the covers wrapped around him. In the morning he would accept the coffee with a faint murmur of acknowledgement, douse himself in her shampoo, and disappear with a peck on the cheek.

She could say no, of course, lock the door and never let it happen, but he knew the buttons to press as if he'd studied her. He was sad and needing and she liked the pliancy of him beneath her hands.

"You never answered my question?" He peered up hopefully.

"I didn't take your damn teddy bear."

"How 'bout the other question?" Even cradled in her lap, bloodshot eyes and smelling of shame, he was cocky.

No answer. It was different for him than it was for her. The playing field was never levelled, and he knew the game better than she did. He pitched, and she swung for what he threw, aimless and tripping. At the end, he walked away the winner, and gave her a kiss for taking part.

"Scully?"

If it was about that damn teddy bear she was prepared to force him to sleep on the couch. "Hmm?"

"I love you."

But he was more than half asleep already, and she calculated his chances of remembering that fact as minimal. He took her hand and cradled it to his chest, she felt his heart through the thin polyester of his sweater, and in the fog the umpire called a foul as Scully was floored by his pitch.

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><p><strong>I'm all out of sugary goods unfortunately, check back in a coupla days when hopefully I'll have donuts or something :D<strong>

**Thanks for reading! xx Drop a review?**


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